A/N: I had no idea I was going to write this. No idea whatsoever.
Back full on to Sitcom Sherlock. -csf
9.
'Extra blanket? Fresh cup of tea? Newspaper crosswords?' Sherlock reads off a list in his hand, finishing: 'Mrs Hudson's incessant chatter?'
John notices the list, the detective made no effort to conceal it. John does not resent the list. Sherlock means every of those generous offerings. It's just Sherlock's usual awkwardness shining through, trying to make it clear to his friend he doesn't usually do this for anyone, he's still a sort of debutant in this "caring for a friend" thing. He wants to do it right for John. He couldn't go wrong if he tried, John thinks, fondly.
'Ta, I don't need anything. I'm fine, Sherlock.'
The consulting detective sighs, exasperated. That's John, through and through. A plethora of "fine", "no meds", "no rest", and "what? that little crash? pfft!" each promising a contradictory hidden meaning. It's little wonder Sherlock resorts to lowly memory aid lists in these occasions. If he misses out a timely offer of tea, his doctor will likely allow himself to become severely dehydrated because "he doesn't want to be a bother".
'Doubtful, John. You have crashed your motorcycle at high speed and got taken to hospital by ambulance fourteen hours ago.'
'I told the paramedics I could have walked home.'
Sherlock huffs, and turns away.
From his post on the living room's sofa, John quickly readjusts his aching body, while Sherlock is not looking, and pulls a face over his condition. He's rapidly becoming impatient.
People often mistake John Watson for a patient person, his mild manner an advocate for peaceful cuppas and cold evenings reading by the fire. And although those are definite goals in John's everyday life, he is still the same person who enlisted for the army and feels most alive in a gun fight or an emergency operating theatre. He can't help it. He knows he's been called an adrenaline addict. And John is already eyeing Sherlock Holmes with envy over his friend's fully functioning, healthy body. Well, John is customarily envious of those sharp relief cheekbones, and still is, now as ever; it's just that he's also looking at the long restless legs and the nimble frantic hands, and he wishes he could replicate them, or in the least, command them.
Now, that's an odd thought. John does not need a runner to get him things if he wants something, he'll brave the way to get it himself like a grown man.
John looks down and spreads the blanket evenly over his knees. His breathing becomes a touch laboured from stretching a bruised rib, from where he made contact with the abrasive pavement, as he skidded a fair distance.
That near imperceptible change in breathing pattern seems to attract the consulting detective's attention. Sherlock nearly sighs. He can see the restless, festering self-blame etched in the folds of the creased Afghan blanket John can't quite tame. An old blanket, perforated by a big moth hole – it's actually a bullet hole, Sherlock was testing materials as gun silencers, and John suspects it, but they pretend it was a mutant moth to their landlady – made of old wool fibres fraying at the edges. An Afghan, to top it all, as if John insisted in keeping his damaged self under a familiar cover he can recognise instantly.
In fact, injuries collected in the Afghanistan war is John's familiar comparison point. For all injuries by Sherlock's side, where John can chalk them up to setbacks in the line of duty, John reacts with stoicism. He leads Sherlock through the younger man's turmoil emotions with ease and retains a vital energy throughout. This time, however, it can be argued there was no life at stake, no selfless defence manoeuvre, no deceptive double cross from a fake ally. This time, John did this to himself. And that makes John feel a bit crap. A bit like a useless imbecile that is weighing down his flatmate. Because John sees Sherlock worrying, and that's not deserved.
'John', Sherlock starts, as if suddenly switching to full theatrical detective mode; possibly just suddenly unmuting, John would say. 'John, before we end our game, I need to establish the persona of our newbie detective.'
John braves a brief smile. 'Sure, if you're sure. It beats a board game... What do we need to establish about Ms "Scotland's finest sleuth"?'
'Is that her name?'
John tilts his head. 'Ms Scotland, you mean? No, but she did win that pageant crown.'
This is why Sherlock enjoys John's company. What the man lacks in factual based reasoning, he makes up in creative lateral thinking. Of course John can't solve a case to save his life, but then why would Sherlock need another like himself, stealing his case solving?
'Where is she from, John?'
'Ehh...-dinburgh?'
'Ugh, predictable. How does she talk? No, don't say "with an accent". How does she dress?'
'If we're not done being stereotypical here, she can wear something in a tartan fabric', John mutters.
'Think, John, we don't have tartan fabric.'
'Yeah, we do. Anyway, why are you so concerned about sourcing the equipment? Mrs Hudson or Molly can bring something.'
'They both refused participation, John, and I had to bribe them for their silence after telling them our story. It turns out "honesty is not the best policy" after all.'
John opens his eyes wide.
'Really? But we needed them! What are we going to do now?'
Sherlock raises his chin stoically.
'I'll have to take up the role, in addition to being myself.'
'Okay, well, I suppose. That will be awkward, though, given you two can't be in the same room at the same time.'
'And that tartan, John?' Sherlock diverges, feigning ease.
'I've got a few things with the Watson tartan. It's my sister's favourite Christmas gift theme. Would that do?' John asks, helpfully.
Sherlock engages in an elaborate, flourish bow.
'It'd be my honour to become a Watson, doctor Watson', he says solemnly.
'Git.' John turns his face away.
'Ditto.' Sherlock walks away.
.
Lestrade does not miss the creaky third step from the top. From the flat someone groans in response, but by the time the inspector opens the front door and looks in the living room, he sees only an image of domestic tranquillity. Greg carefully does not address the handcuffs threateningly set on the centre of the coffee table, nor does he mention in any way the fact that the skull on the mantelpiece is turned upside down. He lets those curious occurrences slide for the sake of general peace.
'John, how are ya doing, you poor sod?'
'Fine', the doctor answers reservedly. Then he adds a Watson grin, hoping to disarm the inspector's concern. It does its job, alright. It's particularly hard to think of John as a convalescent man sat sideways on the sofa, under blankets, when that smile eclipses the brutal array of bruises.
'Good on ya. And you, sunshine, how are you coping?' Greg turns to the detective.
'You forgot about the third step, Lestrade. Again.'
'Sherlock, you look a bit flushed, are you feeling alright?'
The home detective sustains the question easily, but, behind him, John tenses.
'Naturally, inspector. It seems I forgot to remove the Ballerina Pink shade blusher.'
'Oh', is the uncomfortable retort.
'Hmm', Sherlock remains absolutely neutral.
'Oh', Lestrade repeats, even more uncomfortable.
'Indeed', Sherlock tosses his newspaper away, getting up. 'Ms Scotty will be here soon, she texted not long ago.'
If the inspector notices "not long ago" is not Sherlock's usual accuracy, he dismisses the thought quickly, still a bit hung up on the makeup. Perhaps he shouldn't be, Greg admits. Young folks these days are very image conscious, and Sherlock is always in slick tailored suits and even his messy curls are somehow artistic the way they are.
'Scotty?' Lestrade repeats.
'She too wishes to remain anonymous under an alias, I believe.'
'Oh, right. Enough with the criminal masterminds and countless fans, huh?'
Sherlock jerks slightly. 'John, Mrs Hudson is calling for you.'
The doctor parked on the sofa frowns to the door. 'Didn't hear her calling.'
'And you can't go yourself. I'll see what she wants, John.'
Docile, he walks past the inspector and climbs down the stairs. Greg watches him go, without paying attention. He focuses on the stationary patient sat up on the sofa.
'Have you been taking your meds, John?'
'I'm not on meds.'
'The hell you aren't.'
'Just painkillers. Don't need those.'
'The doctors think you do.'
'I'm a doctor. I override their excessive use of painkillers.'
'John, you need to take your meds.'
'No meds, I'm fine.'
A knock on the flat's door surprises the inspector. He turns as a tall, slim figure in a long, fully buttoned trench coat and a big tartan shawl over her tucked back hair and obscuring her pale face and rosy cheeks. She elegantly walks a few steps in the room, as if searching for something, finds the electric switch and turns off the ceiling lights. Only the soft orange-gold glow of a tall lamp and the lively flickers of the fire in the hearth illuminate the squared jaw and upturned nose.
John briefly wonders if he's seen this woman before, on the park or crossing the street. Sherlock wouldn't have done that, would he? Stalk John in disguise to see if John could recognise him? Of course he would.
Apart from the height – Sherlock can't make himself a lot shorter, although he has included a stoop in his shoulders – everything that defines the consulting detective is apparently missing. The dark luxurious hair is tucked under John's tartan shawl, the face is fuller and altered by quick prosthetic pieces, the trench coat lies flat disguising the angular lines of a masculine body. There may be bathroom towels filling up the figure under the trench too.
'Ms Scotland?' John plays his established part.
'Call me Scotty', a modulated voice returns, seductively. Of course Sherlock would outdo the voice modulation device that rises the pitch. He had to go sultry too. 'Sorry about the lights, I'm a bit shy.'
Beam me up, Scotty, is all Greg thinks of saying, so he says nothing at all.
'Long journey? I'll make you some tea, just have a seat—'
Lestrade physically catches John and stops him. He no longer doubts the purpose of the handcuffs on the coffee table.
'I can do that, John. You rest', the inspector says, firmly. Only when John looks dejectedly away, does he release his hold on the blond man and goes to take over the kitchen.
'Sorry, miss, John there is not to move. He had an accident yesterday, he's still recovering. I take it you came to see Sherlock Holmes.'
'Yes', the shawled figure returns. 'The great Sherlock Holmes. This is 221B Baker Street, right?'
'Yeah, Sherlock just went downstairs for a minute... I tell ya, it's good to bring the gang together.'
'The gang?' the figure scrunches her face to John. Only the non prosthetics covered portions comply. John nearly groans. On schedule, Lestrade adds:
'Yeah, Lupin is also coming over.' The front doorbell rings. 'That'll be him.'
'I'll go open the door', the tartan covered guest hurries to offer before John can.
'What? No, Sherlock will get the door, he's downstairs, like I said!' the inspector cuts in.
The doorbell rings again.
John eases his legs off the sofa. 'I'll get it. Since when does Sherlock Holmes answer doorbells?'
The hooded figure slowly shrugs, after pondering the rhetorical question. Still, the figure grabs the handcuffs on the coffee table, without a word, and John resentfully pulls his legs back to the sofa cushions.
'You caught onto that quickly', Greg comments about the handcuffs, as he comes through the living room. 'I'll get the front door. Who knows what Sherlock is up to, downstairs. I'd say he's not usually this rude as a host, but that'd be a lie.'
'Aye', John quips in.
Lestrade has already turned his back, so he doesn't see the trench coat guest glaring at the injured doctor. The inspector goes down the stairs, the third step creaks.
In the living room, suddenly just by themselves, John and Sherlock start bickering in near silent whispers.
We follow the inspector, who with a curious glance at Mrs Hudson's flat door, crosses the entrance to open the front door. Just as he guessed, Anderson is standing there, perhaps a little too enthusiastic in his preparation for the role.
Trench coat (yes, yet another one, that will make three trench coats in the room, it's a ruddy trench coat convention in 221B), deerstalker hat, curved pipe, monocle in one eye and a magnifying lense sticking out of a pocket.
'Where did you get that outfit, the fancy dress shop?'
Anderson huffs. 'It's all my own, inspector. And you can call me Lupin.'
'Maybe a bit of French accent wouldn't go amiss. And are those satin gloves?'
'Lestrade, you asked me for the favour, not the other way around, remember?'
'Yeah, come on in. Let's make it short. The Scottish Sleuth is already upstairs and there's something about her that makes me uncomfortable...'
Greg closes the front door after the forensic technician.
They make quick work of the steps to 221B.
Once they go inside, they did not expect to see Sherlock Holmes, impeccably dressed, standing in a dandified pose by the fireplace, and John angrily trying to get off a pair of handcuffs. 'Sherlock, if you don't get these off me this instant, I swear to g—'
'John, please avoid blasphemy. It's so pedestrian.'
'Oh, I can give you a hellhole load of blasphemy, you—'
'John.'
They suddenly turn to register the newcomers.
If Sherlock wanted to have a better look at the newcomer, his chance is now ruined by the dimmed lights in the living room. Once thing is for sure, it's definitely not the inspector in disguise. It's a real person. There's two of them standing at the door.
'Welcome', says John, acting all polite, as if he hadn't cursed like a sailor just minutes ago as Sherlock fastened the cuffs by force on him.
'Thank you', says the newcomer, in a regular British accent. 'I mean, fanque-you', he repeats.
'That was atrocious', Sherlock comments.
'You would know', John adds.
Lestrade covers his face with his large hand, and it's not nearly enough. By his side, Anderson says, neatly: 'I will not hide I can speak proper and good English. I have learnt at school.'
John quips: 'Good, we wouldn't want to go overboard with the stereotypes.'
'It is an international reunion of world renowned sleuths. Say, where is our Scottish counterpart?'
'You sound a bit like Sherlock, you two will get along just fine... Want to grab a seat in the leather armchair? Greg, you take the red one. Sherlock, there's leftover space at the end of the sofa.
'Of course there is', Sherlock says, innocently sizing the smallish doctor, as he goes where directed. Lestrade and his French friend also take their seats in the appointed locations. All as far from each other as they can be in the cramped small living room, so hopefully they don't see each other's makeup stains. John just spotted prosthetics glue over the consulting detective's left brow. We wants to warn him, but can't figure out how without giving them away.
Sherlock glances at the agitated doctor and relents, tossing him the handcuff keys.
'Where's that woman gone?' Lestrade asks.
Sherlock answers soberly: 'Bathroom. I think she's a bit indisposed. Jet lag, probably.'
John scrunches his face. Jet lag from Scotland? The greatest mind of the century, and that's what he comes up with?
The accent-less French newcomer is quick to agree: 'Oh, yes, jet lag, terrible thing. I'm indisposed myself.'
Lestrade rubs his face again, it's fast becoming a habit. 'I'm getting a bit weary myself', he admits.
John pulls up his best smile and chirps: 'Not me, I'm great!'
Sherlock groans loudly.
John's happy moment dies down instantly. 'Ugh, tea anyone?'
Sherlock groans louder still.
.
TBC
